


Apples are my Favorite Fruit

by Newsnakeyes



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Assassin's Creed III, BAMF Desmond Miles, Cat Clay Kaczmarek, Clay is also immortal, Desmond Miles Lives, Desmond Miles raises Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Desmond Miles-centric, Desmond and Connor save her, Desmond has wings, Desmond practically raises Connor, Did I mention Clay is also a cat?, Father/Son Incest, He goes apple hunting for awhile, Immortal Clay Kaczmarek, Immortal Clay Kaczmarek | Subject 16, Immortal Desmond Miles, Immortality, Immortals, Incest, Kaniehtío:io Lives, M/M, Multi, Only for a little while tho, Parent/Child Incest, Slow Burn, So many tags, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unrealiable updates, Wingfic, Wingless Desmond Miles, Wings, also Desmond is immortal, and disappears off face of earth, but Haytham and her don’t get back together, but he lost them, everyone has wings, mostly - Freeform, so he’s wingless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newsnakeyes/pseuds/Newsnakeyes
Summary: Desmond hasn’t had a very fulfilling life, but it’s too late in life to actually do anything about it. It’s late 2012 and he has to sacrifice himself to save the world. He’s fine with it, after all he’s nothing more than a broken shell of his former self. However, his self-sacrificing ways seem to be cut short by Minerva’s last minute meddling.Now, he’s left in the past (1760 to exact) with his ancestors with no clue on what to do. So, he does what he does best. Wings it - no pun intended.





	1. Prologue

Desmond loved his wings. They’re shiny and sleek, dark as night, everything an assassin represented. Even when the male grew resentful of the Brotherhood and their ways, cowering in the shadows and awaiting their end. Desmond still loved his wings. They symbolize the thing Desmond so desperately sought throughout his childhood, _freedom_. Freedom from his father, the beatings, the training, _the Farm_. And Freedom is everything he had imagined it to be and more, something the ex-assassin had come to cherish and refuse to give up.

That is until Desmond was captured by Abstergo, and strapped down on a medical table, wings spread to their full length on either side of him. That was the day Desmond become broken, for he lost his wings to cruel scientists and templars. Along with the loss of his beautiful wings, so went his freedom. Under the _oh so gentle care_ of Abstergo, Desmond is left a broken shell by both the loss of his wings and the stress of the Animus. It seems after each session in that damned machine made the bartender mentally break just a little more. Where once Desmond never once had to struggle to remember to speak in English, now he did on a daily basis. The normal hoodie and jeans he wore started to become uncomfortable and chafe against his suddenly sensitive skin.

The lines where Desmond began and Altaïr ended began to blur together, where even the bartender was unsure he ever actually left the Animus with how he could hear his ancestor speaking in the back of his mind constantly. It was almost like having a mental conversation, with how Altaïr would respond to some of his questions or observations. The bleeding effect only seemed to worsen as he clawed his way through his ancestor’s memories, trying to rush through for both his own sanity and physical well being. On more than one occasion Desmond had forgotten he no longer had wings and try to flare them, which pulled at damaged muscle and made the bartender cry out in pain. He briefly wondered what Altaïr’s wings looked like; the man had never left them uncovered, simply hiding them underneath all of his robes.

And then Desmond’s understanding of everything around him was thrown into disarray when Lucy helped him escape Abstergo and he met the small Assassin group comprised of Shaun Hastings and Rebecca Crane. Altaïr whispers in the back of his mind comparing Shaun to Malik and analyzing Rebecca and her odd fascination with the Animus-Oh Sorry, Baby. The two other assassins look at him with pity in their eyes, eyeing the stumps left from the removal of his wings. Their gazes made Desmond shrink into himself and hide partially behind Lucy, who was introducing everyone. Altaïr growled in the back of his mind at both the assassins and Lucy, though the bartender was unsure as to why his ancestor was so angry with Lucy.

It was when the other assassins informed of why exactly they kidnapped him from Abstergo, Desmond started to wonder if he would ever become free. Another trip back into the Animus? With a new ancestor? That was asking for trouble, with Desmond’s already fragile mental state. He struggled just to differentiate himself and Altaïr on a good day, and just accepted his semi-dual personality on a bad day. Throwing another ancestor into the mix? Shaun and Rebecca were fucking mental, was all Desmond could think as they expectantly looked at him. It seemed he had no choice either as Lucy gave him an expectant look.

Desmond already had the misfortune to meet this new ancestor, Ezio, right before he escaped Abstergo, and he wasn’t sure on how to think of him. And the bartender only said misfortune because suddenly being a baby and distinctly aware that he was slowly dying due to lack of oxygen was terrifying and Desmond completely blamed his ancestor for that scare. Desmond didn’t bother complaining about training to be an assassin though, from his own desire mingled in with Altaïr’s to improve. Unsurprisingly, the bartender synchronized with Ezio with ease, which pleased everyone. However, surprisingly enough Desmond connected with Ezio far more easier than Altaïr, who seemed to take personal offense to this in the back of his mind.

Ezio… was far more different than Altaïr, Desmond notes almost immediately. He was more open and flirtatious, unlike his Arabic ancestor. Ezio also had no problem with flaunting his wings both in and out of combat, the fluffy brown and red feathers an eye catcher. Desmond came to love Ezio’s wings just as much as he had loved his own. The ex-bartender has not completely grown accustomed to being land bound, but he was coming to accept it. Accept that there was nothing he could do and he had to continue on as best as he could. The whispers of both Altaïr and Ezio helped to divert his attention, even if only momentarily. Desmond was thankful for them, even if they were only the echoes of people long past.

The male quickly made his way through Ezio’s memories, only momentarily stopped when Juno decided to be a bitch and take over his body. And killing Lucy. Desmond still wasn’t sure how to feel about that revelation, since he was aware Lucy had been red in his eagle vision, signifying an enemy. The ex-bartender felt betrayed, but at the same time thankful because at least the others didn’t have to know of Lucy’s betrayal. Then again, Desmond didn’t get much time to ponder on Lucy’s demise before he’s being thrown in the Animus because _his fucking mind is destroying itself_.

All Desmond can think is _Well, at least I have Altaïr and Ezio._ That’s before he runs into Clay and… well, it was best left unsaid. The fascinating thing about being in a coma while hooked up to the Animus is the fact that Desmond was in his actual body instead of an ancestor’s. It’s interesting while it lasts and then he’s rushing through Ezio’s memories, trying desperately to get out of the Animus alive. He succeeds in the end, with Ezio as a permanent fixture in the back of his mind just like Altaïr and the distinct feeling as though he had lost something important as he watches Clay disappear. Desmond feels almost as if he just killed someone, even if Clay was obviously desperate to be free. The ex-bartender is forever in the other man’s debt.

It takes awhile but Desmond finally starts to get back on track, courtesy of Jupiter’s generous information and Ezio’s memories. Waking up from his coma to see his father, William Miles, was definitely a shock for Desmond but he quickly shook it off. He didn’t have time to properly acknowledge his daddy issues, not with the world only a few months away from destruction. Desmond isn’t surprised that his father’s decision is the good ol’ reliable ‘Throw him in the Animus’. Whatever, the ex-bartender is just expecting another trip every time he gets out of it.

His next ancestor is far more different than Desmond expected. First off, Haytham Kenway is a _templar_ , instead of an assassin. Hey, Desmond isn’t judging but it’s quite interesting that someone was an enemy in the bloodline. Either way, the male is both disappointed and somewhat sad that his journey with Haytham only lasted maybe a day session in the Animus; the man had grown on Desmond. Altaïr and Ezio didn’t agree with his thoughts, but they wisely didn’t say anything about it.

The interesting fact Desmond learned, however, is that the bleeding effect didn’t carry over for Haytham. The ex-bartender shrugged it off, presuming it to be either the new Animus he had grown comfy with or that he didn’t stay connected to Haytham long enough to warrant bleeding effect. _Another_ interesting fact Desmond learned as he slipped back into another Animus session, he was now reliving Haytham’s son’s memories. Now, isn’t that fascinating? Ratonhnhaké:ton, or Connor, has a _horrible life._ Desmond caught himself crying more than a few times at the life his ancestor lived. Connor grows on Desmond far, _far_ quicker than his other ancestors, simply due to ex-bartender wanting to reach out and hug the young man. Altaïr and Ezio wholeheartedly agree from where they’re snuggled in the back of his brain.

Perhaps, the main reason Connor had grown on Desmond was because of the native’s permanently singed wings. The native had come _extremely_ close to completely losing his soft wings, the gray feathers permanently charred black at the tips. While Connor didn’t lose his wings, he did lose the ability to fly due to half destroyed flight feathers. However, the native didn’t let this slow him down as he trained the muscles enough where he could still glide with them, in case he ever fell from a great height. Desmond is also sympathetic towards Connor’s plight with his father, momentarily thinking of his own father who was probably ordering assassin’s around.

The ex-bartender has been getting better at differentiating his ancestors from himself for the most part, but it seems with Connor it causes Desmond more trouble. The only explanation the male can think of is the fact they led very similar lives, but the ex-bartender still wasn’t entirely sure that was the reason.

Desmond is disappointed in how Connor and Haytham’s story ends, as well as the slightest bit sorrowful. Sometimes, the ex-bartender forgets that these are people long past and aren’t alive anymore. The modern assassin continues to watch Connor’s journey, focusing more on the pieces of eden than ever before. The journey with Connor ends quite abruptly, which leaves Desmond strangely unsatisfied, but the ex-bartender has no time to properly analyze it. He has a job to complete. To save the world.

Learning that he was being manipulated by Juno didn’t surprise Desmond, in fact the man had been aware of it for awhile. Though, the assassin couldn’t say he had been anticipating just how far Juno had manipulated him and the amount of effort she put into it. He patiently listens to both women argue over what would be best for the world; letting it burn or letting Juno lose on it. In the end, he decides to save the Earth at the cost of Juno, because quite frankly Desmond wouldn’t be able to live without wi-fi and modern technology. Oh, and he trusts his father and friends to be able to stop Juno.

“It’s done, Minerva. The decision’s made,” Desmond forces out to the women that had only been trying to help mankind. The ex-bartender does not feel joy in the dismayed expression she makes, only a heart-clenching sadness. But ultimately, it was the better choice.

“Then the consequences of this mistake are yours to live-and die- with,” Minerva’s voice seemed to hitch for a second before returning to normal. The isu woman backed up as she spoke, a somewhat betrayed look in her eye, but also calculating. Minerva had a trick up her sleeve that she wasn’t speaking of.

Desmond didn’t have time to analyze the women sudden shift in demeanor, turning to address his friends and father. “You need to go. All of you. Now. Get as far away from here as you can.”

A sudden hand dropping on his shoulder startled Desmond. It was William. “Come with us! We’ll find another way!”

Desmond felt his heart clench unexpectedly at his father actually showing genuine concern for him. William may have been a shitty father, but at least he was doing his best to right his wrongs by standing by his son in his final moments. A ghost of a smile stretched across the ex-bartender’s lips before reaching up and squeezing his father’s hand. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t time.”

“You know it’s true, dad. It’s already started. I need to do this now. So go!” Desmond continued, gently pulling William’s hand off his shoulder and holding it in front of himself, before letting go. He gestured for his father to go with a swing of his arms, a determined glint in his eyes. “Go!”

Tears visibly gathered in the corners of William’s eyes but nonetheless, he nodded and turned away with Shaun at his heels. Desmond cast one last glance at the two people that had stood by his side the past couple of months and turned to the Global aurora borealis device. Minerva and Juno were gone, but that didn’t stop the assassin from approaching the device. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush, quickly placing his right hand on the device before he lost his nerve. It was… not painful, per say, but more overwhelming. It was as though a sudden bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over his head as information about _everything_ filled his head. Every location of Apple of Eden, every ability each of them possessed, who had ownership of them last. So much information and Desmond couldn’t keep track of it all.

_Dezmund!_ The distinct voices of Altaïr and Ezio filled his head as everything went black.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, didn’t really mention any wings in this chapter. More action tho, so Desmond couldn’t really concentrate on other people’s wings. But hey, Connor and Ziio make an appearance! Enjoy!

When Desmond wakes up, it is a lot more painful than he remembers. The most pain he would’ve experienced after waking up was mild discomfort, whether from lack of sleep or just sleeping in a bad position. However, this time the assassin felt more than mild discomfort, it was definitely pain. Pain in his right arm and behind his eyes-a headache?- specifically. A low groan of pain slipped past his lips when a sudden pulse of pain shot through his head.  _ ‘Yep, definitely a headache.’ _

The low noise he had let out seemed to worsen his headache even more, making it a borderline migraine. Desmond made a move to roll onto his side to curl into himself, when a bolt of pain shot through his right arm. A yelp escaped him. “Motherfucker-!” The assassin gasped out, yanking his arm back and grabbed his elbow with his left hand. “What the hell?”

The ex-bartender took measured breathes and cracked open an eye-just a sliver, but it was too much too soon. It was the equivalent of wildfire spreading across his face and beyond his eyes. A low hiss of pain once again slipped past Desmond’s lips, just adding to the migraine. The ex-bartender could do nothing but lay there for what seemed like hours, which in reality was no more than a few minutes, until the pain dropped to a more tolerable level. Mentally counting down from three, the assassin once again tried to crack open an eye, this time with a hand shielding his face from the sunlight. It was marginally more successful this time and his migraine didn’t worsen from the pulsing points of pain just behind his eyes.

The first thing to greet his eyes was the sight of thick foliage and gentle sunlight sneaking through the canopy of leaves hanging above him. It seemed he was in a small clearing, only big enough to squeeze maybe two grown men in, but not much else besides that. Desmond had to admit, it was a beautiful sight to see, but he didn’t have the time to properly appreciate it. The assassin took a moment to scan his surroundings, catching nothing else of importance near him at the moment. He was safe from Templar’s, at the very least. However, he didn’t recognize where he was, other than he might still be in the United States.

“Where in the world am I?” Desmond mused out loud, letting his head fall back against the ground with a dull thud. A hiss left him as his migraine briefly flared, but it quickly settled back down. “How did I get here? So many questions…”

_ ‘Either way, I need to find a way to get out of here… Dad, Shaun, and Rebecca must be worried about me. Especially since I didn’t die like Juno and Minerva said I would…’  _ The male scoffed slightly, closing his eye in thought. After a moment, he opened both to stare up at the canopy of leaves.  _ ‘Though, that reminds me… They did fuck up my arm pretty badly.’ _

Desmond pulled himself up in a sitting position and reached for his right arm, pushing his sleeve up to better access the damage. The assassin went pale and grew sick at the sight of the now charred flesh. Ya, there was no way he could use that arm again. Yet… the assassin experimentally flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching then. His eyes widened in surprise when they responded perfectly and not an ounce of pain went through his arm. “Wha… There’s no way that’s normal.”

Next, the ex-bartender tried to rotate his wrist in a circle, still surprised but not as startled when it responded as a normal hand should’ve. Still, Desmond didn’t want to assume his hand was in perfect condition, just slightly on the overcooked side, without properly experimenting. Not to mention, that bolt of pain that had gone through him when his hand had touched the ground. The assassin gazed at his hand in wonder and thought as he clenched his hand into a fist, before letting it fall loose. First, he had to find out where he was before he could deal with the problem of his arm. Desmond already had a good idea of who had sent him here (I.e Minerva), yet that didn’t help him on how to find his friends and father. A low sigh escaped him and the ex-bartender forced himself up into a sitting position, and then a crouch. Carefully straightened in case of vertigo, the assassin quickly took stock of his items-only his hidden blade and courier bag.

The ex-bartender quickly activated his eagle vision and did a quick 360, scanning for anything that would help him escape. To his surprise, there was a trail of brightly glowing, golden footprints leading deeper into the foliage. The young man paused as he considered this, wondering why it didn’t occur to him before. This was the twenty-first century. Where the hell was there untouched wilderness that would help him? If that was what Minerva was trying to accomplish, that is. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less it made sense. Either way, Desmond would get his answers in time, but in the meantime he was wasting precious daylight just standing there.

“Although, Altaïr and Ezio are being awfully quiet.” The assassin mused out loud, turning his attention to the golden footprints he had noticed earlier. “Here goes nothing.”

* * *

It takes a while, but Desmond manages to reach the end of the golden footprints. They lead to a village made of straw and wood, which immediately throws the assassin off balance. This is the twenty-first century; who the hell uses straw to build structures?! Everyone either uses metal, steel, or brick nowadays. That was the first thing to catch the ex-bartender’s attention about the place, the second thing was the fact that the whole village was  _ ablaze _ . Like, it was  _ really on fire _ .

“Froto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” he murmured quietly, his eyes wide and focused on the burning structure. “Or in 2012 for the matter.”

The assassin was mildly disappointed and slightly concerned when neither Altaïr or Ezio decided to grace him with an answer. However, he couldn’t dwell on the lack of response, not with his conscious screaming at him to go help out the poor villagers undoubtedly suffering from the fire. Yet, Desmond couldn’t bring himself to move as he felt something close to deja vu and apprehensive settle deep in his gut, leaving him unable to move. Actually… now that he had gotten a better look at the village, it looked a lot like Connor’s.

“Holy shit, that has to be a coincidence, right?” The assassin almost whined underneath his breath. As he looked upon the village that housed his ancestor for all of his childhood and some of his adult life, Desmond felt… lost. He felt as though the proverbial rug had been yanked from underneath his feet and he was falling with nothing to catch hold of. It was startling and a very unwelcome feeling.

A sudden shout broke Desmond out of thoughts, however. “ISTA!” A very familiar shout indeed. The ex-bartender almost let out an audible groan, instead releasing a sigh. It seems his suspicions were correct… and that he was in the past. Desmond closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts and glanced down from his perch in the tree, eyes scanning for Ratonhnhaké:ton,  _ Connor _ .

And there the young boy was, just running from the forest to the left of Desmond. The boy didn’t once stop as he sprinted towards his village, not even noticing the sharp gaze tracking him. Now, Desmond was faced with a dilemma. He either sat back and watched Ratonhnhaké:ton go through the same pain as he originally did… or the assassin could fuck with time and save Kaniehtí:io from burning to death. The latter sounded a lot better than the former.

“...Fuck it.” Desmond sighed, quickly dropping down to the ground from his perch. He set off into a sprint, chasing after the small form of his ancestor. “I’ll deal with the coincidences later. If there are any.”

The assassin moved quickly, slipping into the village with ease, yet garnered more than a couple of uneasy looks. He quickly activated eagle vision and followed Connor’s golden footprints, vaulting over fallen wooden beams in the way or sliding underneath fallen boats. In no time at all, the ex-bartender has caught up to small Connor, who was still calling out for his mother.

“ISTA!” Ratonhnhaké:ton called out, skidding to a stop in front of his small hut. Wooden planking covered the entrance, barring entry into the building through the doorway. His small hands battered at the wood in quick succession, before he seemed to realize that it was a fruitless endeavor.

_ “In here,” _ Kaniehtío:io answered back in Mohawk, her speech interrupted by coughing. Ratonhnhaké:ton visibly perked up and backed up, his gaze swinging to the left and then to the right. Presumably to find another way into the building.

Meanwhile, Desmond watched with both fascination and horror. He quickly shook himself out of it and rushed forward, quickly sidestepping the small form of his ancestor and grabbed ahold of the solid wooden planking barring the doorway. The assassin fumbled for a moment to get a good grip, luckily his fingers managed to close securely around the edges. The young male grunted with both effort and pain, his right hand throbbing at touching the wood, but he didn’t have time to be concerned. Desmond managed to rip the wood planking out of the way, with a couple of heaves, which left him breathless.

_ ‘Fuck, I need to work out more if I’m this out of breath,’  _ The assassin thought in one ludicrous moment, before snapping back to the task at hand. He quickly threw the planking aside and appraised the wooden beams pinning Kaniehtío:io to the ground. He could heave the weight off her, but only for a few moments, time that she didn’t have if her legs were broken. Desmond cast a quick glance at the women and winced; there was no way her legs  _ weren’t  _ broken. The assassin quickly thought of a solution and the answer practically hit him in the head.

The ex-bartender twirled around to see Ratonhnhaké:ton was gazing at him with a look of wonder and no small amount of hero worship. Desmond don’t have time to acknowledge it and instead snapped,  _ “You, help me! I’ll hold up the wood long enough for you drag your mother out, Alright?” _

The small boy quickly snapped out of his worship and quickly nodded, rushing forward to crouch by Desmond.  _ ‘Let’s hope this works.’ _ The assassin thought before working his fingers underneath some of the wood and  _ heaving _ .  _ “Now, kid! NOW!” _

Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t need to be told twice, his small body using all of its strength to pull his mother from underneath the wood. Desmond was just starting to hope that they would make it out alive, when he heard the sound of ominous creaking from above. The assassin cursed in English and started to urge his kid ancestor to work faster in Mohawk. The creaking only got worse and Kaniehtío:io still wasn’t completely dragged from the wreckage, making Desmond start to worry. There was a chance they wouldn’t be able to save the woman, but the assassin didn’t want to acknowledge it.

A sudden snap caught the ex-bartender’s attention and he gritted his teeth before grabbing Kaniehtío:io’s leg with his right hand and pushed her out the doorway, before letting go of the broken wood still grasped in his left hand and threw himself out the doorway. Desmond didn’t get away completely unscathed, bits of flaming wood raining down from the rafters to crash into his back just before he escaped, burning through his hoodie and damaging his back. A sharp scream ripped itself from the assassin’s lips and he fell into the dirt, landing next to Kaniehtío:io’s coughing form with Ratonhnhaké:ton wrapped around her.

A cough escaped Desmond, which quickly turned into a laugh, and then he was hysterically laughing. The woman and son started to join in after a moment, just enjoying the fact they were alive. Even with his right hand currently twitching next to him, due to pain, and his back a burned mess, Desmond knew it would be okay.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say, but this is mostly dialogue and sorta loitering. Desmond actually starts to get shit done next chapter.

_‘There is no way I won’t have lung problems after this,’_ Desmond mused, coughing harshly. It took a long moment for him to finally stop hacking, his eyes watering. The ex-bartender was currently seated in the forest near the village, actually in the area where he had been perched on that tree, with Ratonhnhaké:ton and his mother. The assassin had to carry Kaniehtío:io bridal style to escape the village; he didn’t want her dying from smoke inhalation just after all the effort he put into saving her. The small form of his ancestor had obediently ran at his heels, much like an overexcited puppy. With the immediate threat of his two ancestors of dying was over, Desmond took a moment to just breathe in the fresh air and think.

So, he was in the past. 1760, to be precise. The assassin wasn’t even sure how to react to that news, so instead he decided to ignore it for now. He would deal with it later, and have a mental break down about it later as well. However, Desmond’s immediate concern was about his ancestors and their wounds. Kaniehtío:io was getting her broken legs set by the village healer at the moment, but while she was being checked over it was revealed her wings had been broken as well. Crushed underneath her own weight, there was a high chance of them never healing again and they would be dead weight. The woman seemed to believe they would get better, so the healer decided to leave them be besides wrapping them.

Desmond felt a sense of sadness wash over him as this transpired, before deciding to focus on Ratonhnhaké:ton instead. It seemed fate was as kind as it ever was when it considered the native; his wings were the exact same as they were originally. Unable to use them for flight, but still useful. The assassin wished desperately to reach out and gently stroke the singed feathers, but he refrained with difficulty. He knew his ancestor did not appreciate sudden touches, especially from strangers.

_“Who are you?”_ Ratonhnhaké:ton’s soft voice infiltrated the ex-bartender’s ears. The small child was watching the assassin with wide eyes, still filled with hero worship and wonder.

Desmond mentally debated on whether it was a smart move to tell the boy his real name or not, before saying to hell with it. _“Desmond. My name is Desmond.”_

The small child seemed intrigued, _“Is that an English name? I’ve never heard of it before.”_

The assassin paused at the question, actually not entirely sure himself. He had a very unique name in that he knew no-one else with his name. Desmond finally just shrugged, turning his attention back to his ancestor, _“Maybe, I’m not quite sure. How about you? What’s your name?”_

_“Ratonhnhaké:ton!”_ The boy immediately answered, flashing a smile at the assassin before suddenly growing somber. _“Will mother be okay?”_

The ex-bartender tensed for a moment, before relaxing as he turned to look at Kaniehtío:io and the village healer, who seemed to be having a heated discussion. _“I believe so. She will be fine, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Just a couple months of healing. Actually, why don’t you go talk to her? I have some things to take care of.”_

The younger male agreed with ease and shuffled over to his mother, cuddling into her side. Desmond felt a smile tug at his lips as he gazed at the two, before pulling himself off the ground. Subconsciously, he brushed the dirt and grass off his jeans as he thought over his situation. Now that the burning village crisis was over the assassin had no clue on what to do. Especially since Altaïr and Ezio still haven’t said anything either, making the young male more than a little anxious. Desmond had become so accustomed to his two ancestors being a part of his life that _not_ hearing them was distressing. In more ways than one. The assassin hunched into himself with a frown, shoving his hands in his pockets with an air of distress. Desmond wasn’t sure if he could live without those two familiar voices, especially in the past where he had no allies or friends. He chanced a glance at the still arguing Kaniehtío:io and the small form of Ratonhnhaké:ton for a moment, before turning away. It wasn’t the same; he couldn’t talk to them about the future.

Desmond paused for a moment as he considered his options. He could always stay with his ancestors and watch over them, Ratonhnhaké:ton to be more precise, yet that would set him back by 9 years just to wait for the native to leave his village. The assassin was unsure, however, if the boy would become an assassin in the future, with his mother still being alive. Never mind the fact Desmond wasn’t going to allow Juno to manipulate his ancestor with that damned crystal ball. That brought up yet _another problem_. How the hell was he supposed to break that damn crystal ball without incurring the villager’s wrath? The ex-bartender has no desire to break it then bolt, since that would cause him multiple problems, and the assassin wasn’t sure he could get away with blaming someone else for it.

Desmond let out a sigh and glanced towards the forest, wondering if perhaps just leaving would be the best option. Take out the Templar’s himself and talk to Achilles. The assassin immediately banished that thought, not wanting to bring more attention to himself than he already had. Not to mention… he glanced down at his right arm with a tight expression. _‘I still need to get my back checked out too…’_

_“So many things to do,”_ Desmond mused out loud before turning back to the village’s healer. It seemed as though the healer and Kaniehtío:io had finally come to an agreement; the mother looked self-satisfied and was fussing over her son while the healer looked slightly irritated. The assassin immediately made his way to the healer, a small and old woman, to properly dress his wounds.

* * *

It takes a long while for the healer to properly clean out his wounds and wrap them. Desmond’s courier bag had been burnt when the burning wood had fallen on him earlier, which ended up sticking to his wound due to him not properly taking care of it. It had been painful to carefully pull the fabric out of the blistered skin, including trying to rip off his hoodie and shirt since they didn’t have anything to cut through the fabric. It had taken several moments just to get the fabric off and when the assassin was bare waist up, he heard a sharp gasp. The ex-bartender briefly wondered what had the healer so surprised before stiffening in realization; the remains of his wings were on full display. Desmond shifted uncomfortably as the healer started to babble in Mohawk about how sorry she was about not tending to him earlier and that his wings were gone.

_“It’s fine,”_ the assassin spoke, looking forward with a tired sigh. His heart felt heavy at the reminder of what he had lost, but he pushed it away as best as he could. _“I lost them before the fire. It is not your fault.”_

_“It is not fine!”_ The healer insisted, even as she started to carefully wrap his back and, against his insistence, the stumps of his wings. _“Wings are precious and the loss of them is more dangerous than a physical wound! Almost everyone that has lost their wings die shortly afterward from heartbreak!”_

A bitter snort slipped past Desmond before he could stop it. Neither him or the healer spoke again after that, though she did throw him several pitying looks as she left to attend to other people. The assassin let out a sigh and finally glanced down at his right arm again, which was also wrapped at the healer’s insistence. _‘I’m guessing I can’t put pressure on this hand, or hold anything… or maybe I can’t hold heavy objects?’_

The assassin shook his head after a moment of just staring at his hand, briefly wondering why he kept spacing out. _‘I must be tired,’_ he reasoned before reaching for his torn hoodie and shirt. He felt naked without those two articles of clothing, especially due to him being an assassin and not having his face covered when in the presence of multiple strangers. As he held the fabric in his hands, a sense of sadness washed over him as he fingered the hole right in the centre of the back. These were the only things he had to remember his future-past-whatever.

_‘I’m going to need new clothes,’_ Desmond mused as he carefully pulled his hoodie on, completely ignoring his shirt; It would just get in the way. _‘I could ask the natives, since I don’t have money to go and spend. Or perhaps I can make my own… Actually, I have no clue on how to do that.’_

The assassin was brought out of his musings when he heard a familiar shout. it was Ratonhnhaké:ton. _“Desmond! My mother wants to speak with you!”_

_‘Oh shit,’_ the ex-bartender thought, his blood pressure increasing slightly in fear. He hoped he wasn’t about to get a tongue lashing. Desmond really didn’t need that on top of his admittedly shitty day. Nevertheless, the assassin didn’t have the energy to start sprinting away as fast as possible, so he followed the young child to his mother. _“Did she say what she wanted to talk about?”_

_“She wants to thank you!”_ The child answered easily, not a trace of a lie. It didn’t make the assassin feel better, since there was the chance the mother had just been lying to appraise the child. Children almost always believed the words of their parents. _“I also wanted to say thank you. For saving my mother.”_

The ex-bartender glanced at the child with slight surprise, before smiling warmly. _“It was no problem. I couldn’t sit back and let her die. Not when I knew I could do something.”_

Desmond was completely bullshitting his way through this conversation; he was no saint. Hell, he was trained from the age of 4 to kill. However, Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to believe his word so the assassin tried to not think about it too much. He knew that his conversation with Kaniehtío:io was going to be much more difficult, especially since it was another adult and the woman had a way of making you spill out your darkest secrets. The two males continued on their way in silence, Desmond from lack of knowing how to start a conversation with a 4-year old, and Ratonhnhaké:ton from being an awkward child.

It was a rather short walk, since Kaniehtío:io couldn’t move about with two broken legs and Desmond had only been about one hundred feet away to get his wounds tended in a somewhat private setting. As private as you can get with being at the edge of a forest, that is. The assassin drew to a stop the moment he came within 10 feet of the mother, while Ratonhnhaké:ton cheerfully curled up next to his mother. Kaniehtío:io’s gaze immediately shot up to stare Desmond down with sharp eyes, an intelligence that he could respect from anyone. The assassin felt himself slightly wither from that gaze, as though he had done something wrong even when he hadn’t.

“Hmm, you are Desmond?” Kaniehtío:io spoke in English, slightly startling the assassin. “I would like to thank you for saving me and my son.”

The ex-bartender felt as though he was being tested, but pushed the feeling down with some difficulty. It wasn’t as though he could do much about it at the moment without appearing suspicious. “I-Uh, yes. And it was no problem. Just I figured since I had the chance to save you, why not take it?”

Desmond forced himself to not say anything else, feeling as though he already said too much. Yet, he couldn’t take those words back. They were already out there. _“I see,”_ Kaniehtío:io unexpectedly switched to Mohawk, expertly done too. Desmond mentally cursed, definitely a test. _“And what is a white man such as yourself doing in our village? And how did you find us?”_

The assassin had been prepared for this questioning, but now that the question had been directed at him, he felt all of his lies disappear in thin air. He felt himself falter for a moment, before answering back, _“I got… lost. I had been following a trail of footprints that belonged to bears when I realized I had gone too far from my village. I saw the smoke from the fire and decided to check it out…”_

Kaniehtío:io seemed skeptical, which she didn’t even try to hide from his view. Even injured and unable to move, she painted a formidable figure that Desmond was more than hesitant to engage. _“Yet, you know the Mohawk language. How?”_

_‘This feels remarkably like an interrogation,’_ the ex-bartender mused, holding his hands up a universal sign of surrender. _“My grandfather taught me.”_ Which was true since Connor was his grandfather, just many times great and possibly removed. What a disturbed thought. _“He said it be best I know how to communicate for myself, then try to rely on translators.”_

Desmond was surprised at the bullshit he managed to spew out in the past few minutes, but he was _floored_ when the mother seemed to accept this as his answer. _‘What the fuck. How did I manage that?’_

The woman visibly relaxed and her face grew more friendly, a smile even spread across her face. _“I apologize for the questioning, Desmond, but my village and it’s people come first. I can’t have them at risk of exposure of the white men.”_

The assassin lowered his hands to relax at his sides, feeling as though he had somehow dodged a bullet. A weak and somewhat forced smile slipped onto his face as he answered, _“I completely understand. I hope I have not caused any undue stress for you and your people.”_

The two adults spoke for awhile longer, with Desmond being allowed to stay in the village for a few days to recover before he was to be sent back to his “own village”. The assassin was grateful and less stressed as he was given time to properly figure out his next move. Desmond left his two ancestors after a while to go watch the village, which had stopped burning an hour before hand. “I am so fucked.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me if there’s any spelling mistakes, thanks. Enjoy!

Sometime before the sun set, everyone made their way back to the village and the ones who weren’t overly injured started to help repair everything. Desmond was pleasantly surprised to see that the natives had managed to put out the fire with next to no casualties and minimized damage to the structures. The assassin felt a strange mix of pride and sorrow at the sight, before he was forced to push it aside since he was being hustled to the main building. The ex-bartender has a good idea as to why they were leading him there. It was a short trek from the edge of the forest to the village, but felt so much longer due to his adrenaline finally wearing off and feeling the full extent of his injuries. Every step felt like being poked in the back with a hot pocker and his right arm twinged from the slightest brush of air.

Desmond managed to grit his teeth and bare the pain the whole way to the center of the village, mentally revising his plan to include _recovering_. There was no way he would be able to move around with ease with these burns, or really move. If it hurt just to walk, he didn’t want to imagine trying to scale walls. Ratonhnhaké:ton had briefly walked with him, talking his ear off and talking of how grateful he was, before taking off to obsessively watch over his mother, who was being gently carried into the village by some village men. The assassin felt relief as soon as the young boy left, before it was replaced with guilt at the emotion, but it quickly disappeared. Desmond had no clue on how to interact with a child and he wasn’t a fan of them in general. Too clingy for his tastes and needed constant attention, which the assassin wasn’t good at giving.

The ex-bartender finally reached the main building of the village with a low hiss of pain, gently placing a hand on his back as he panted in exhaustion. He refrained from bending over to catch his breath, knowing full well that would cause undue stress on his wound, before shuffling into the room. The assassin immediately sat down heavily next to the unlit campfire. As he sat there trying not to gasp for breath, a though occurred to him. The assassin knew without a doubt that it was the Clan Mother that wanted to speak with him, but if he could somehow sneak the talk of spirits in the conversation, maybe he could see the crystal ball. Desmond highly doubted it, since he was very much a stranger, even if he had saved Kaniehtío:io, and a white man at that.

The ex-bartender has never cursed out a group of people as badly as he did in that moment. This would’ve been marginally more easier if the natives and Englishmen had just _worked together_. The assassin could understand each side’s viewpoints to some extent, but they could’ve gone about in such a better way. A sigh slipped past the male’s lips before pushing the thoughts down; there was nothing he could do about it. The soft crunch of grass being stepped on caught his attention and Desmond looked up, gaze settling on the ancient form of the Clan Mother.

_“So you are Desmond,”_ she greeted, coming to a stop across him and leaned heavily on her cane. Her eyes had a warm quality to them as she gazed upon the assassin, seemingly happy to see him. Desmond was immediately confused, but nodded nevertheless. _“I’ve been expecting you. Or rather, the spirit has been expecting you. But first, I would like to thank you for saving my daughter and grandson.”_

The ex-bartender felt his face and mind go blank, confusion and alarm mixing together to create an indescribable dread that settled in the pit of his stomach. This was going to complicate things and completely destroy his plan, especially if the spirit the Clan Mother was talking about was Juno. Who knows what the isu woman said about him, what lies or half-truths she muttered behind his back and into the Clan mother’s ear. Desmond stiffly leaned back and met the elderly woman’s gaze evenly, easily slipping into Altaïr’s persona instead of his own docile and laidback nature. The assassin easily slipped into eagle vision and wasn’t surprised to see that the Clan Mother was bathed in blue.

_“And what did this spirit say?”_ Desmond finally forced out, ready to bolt if need be. He rather not with his injuries and his thin clothing that wouldn’t protect him from the cold.

The Clan Mother leveled a look at him, seemingly understanding his sudden stand offish behavior. _“She called himself Minerva and told me that you would save my daughter. She also said that you were important and to keep you safe. Said you were going to save the world, though I have no clue as to what that means.”_

Desmond relaxed the slightest bit, but didn’t drop Altaïr’s persona as he critically analyzed the information he had been given. It seemed his theory on Minerva being the one to send him back in time was correct, but as to why was unknown. It seemed his job to save the world was still not finished, just momentarily delayed for the moment. But for what purpose? The amount of questions the assassin had was starting to piss him off, with next to no answers forthcoming anytime soon. Generally the vague answers the isu gave him was enough to momentarily stifle his irritation, but with the combination of exhaustion, pain, and the fact he was in the past turned Desmond into a ticking time bomb.

Taking a few measured breathes, the ex-bartender closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. It would do no good to start yelling or demanding answers, especially with someone that probably knew even less than him. _“Did she say anything else?”_

The words were sharp and portrayed the assassin’s anger perfectly, but the Clan Mother paid no mind to it. Instead, the woman turned to the side and grabbed the wooden box that housed the crystal ball. Desmond mentally slapped himself for not noticing the box earlier and watched curiously as the Clan Mother pulled out a piece of fabric to hold in her left hand. Then the elderly woman opened the wooden box with almost hesitant movements and grabbed the crystal ball with her covered left hand, presumably to minimize contact with the skin.

_“All she said is to be far more careful with this ball and that there is an evil spirit trying to use it. Other than that… she wanted you to talk to her,”_ the woman murmured, holding out the crystal ball over the unlit fire. _“I have many questions… but I trust you. Please do not betray my trust.”_

Desmond grew somber at the tired tone in the woman’s voice, glancing down at the crystal ball that would change everything. _“I… I will not. And after this is done, I will try to explain as best as I can.”_

The Clan Mother seemed surprised at that last statement, but recovered quickly and pushed the crystal ball into Desmond’s waiting hands. Almost immediately everything went dark around him before the golden sigils that he had come to know as the Isu’s language started to appear around him. Where once the assassin would’ve looked around in fascination at the Nexus and been easily distracted, Desmond now was focused on one goal. To get answers. In between one blink and the next, the familiar form of Minerva appeared. Yet, she was much, much older than when Desmond last laid eyes on her. The sight of wrinkled skin and shaking hands, along with the isu’s tired face threw the assassin off enough that Minerva was able to get word in first.

“Desmond,” The woman started and then paused, as though she was trying to gather her thoughts. “I’m sorry for the unexpected adventure to the past, but it was necessary. If I had not, you would’ve died and Juno would’ve been released on the world. I know you have many questions, but I don’t have the time to answer all of them. My time here is limited as I am dying. What you need to know is that Juno is still present in the grand temple, she had become such a vital part that removing her would render the device useless. However, you still have a chance. Find a younger version of me that has yet to finish the device and tell her of Juno. Or a younger Jupiter. Either one of us, but do not tell Juno. Even now, my time is running out.”

The assassin tried to absorb as much information as he could from the woman in front of him, knowing that Minerva was doing her best to try and fix this mess. “Wait, Minerva!” Fuck, the ex-bartender didn’t even know where to start, much less which questions were the most important. “Where can I find a younger you?!”

The woman flickered out of existence for a moment before returning, her face worried and haggard. “In the temples, Desmond. Find the temples we left behind to stop the first disaster. I… don’t-can not help you with this. An apple will help you find your way, but beware. Juno’s influence grows stronger everyday.”

Desmond frantically tore through his mind for an important question and finally just blurted out, “What happened to Altaïr and Ezio?”

The woman gave him an odd look and frown, her voice now much weaker than it had been moments before. “They are still with you, just weak. They will return in time, but it will take awhile. Time that you must use wisely. I dropped you here because all the pieces you need to stop Juno is here. The key, an Apple, and the grand temple. But do not fret Desmond, you will figure it out.”

The ex-bartender spluttered and struggled to his feet, mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tried to express what he was thinking. Minerva didn’t patiently wait for the ex-bartender to get his shit together, instead she shook her head and spoke quickly, “I am sorry. I have to go. Do not worry, you have an ally. You have met him before, but he will be in a different form then you remember. He will find you and you him.”

**“Goodbye, Desmond. Destroy the crystal ball.”**

And with that, all of the golden sigils disappeared and the room was back to its original color and the Clan Mother was seated on the floor, staring up at him. Her face was unreadable, but her body was visibly tense and her knuckles were white from gripping her cane so hard. Desmond ignored the woman for now and just looked down at the crystal ball with shaking hands, feeling as though he had both learned new information and learned nothing. The assassin was accustomed to the feeling where it concerned the Isu, but it did not mean he enjoyed it. Forcing himself to breathe normally, the ex-bartender forced himself to sit back down Indian style and set the crystal ball off to the side.

The assassin noticed her narrowed look at him treating the artifact with little to no respect, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt wrung out, exhausted and frustrated at the lack of answers once again. He was so annoyed with the ones that came before, but at the same time felt nothing. Desmond was grateful when the Clan Mother did not immediately ask for details, instead she busied herself with trying to relax and adjusting her cane so it laid next to herself. He needed time to gather his thoughts and his self-control. Desmond was fully aware that when he was angry, he had a tendency to lash out verbally and destroy any relationship he might have.

_“...She wanted me-or us to destroy the crystal ball.”_ The assassin felt it was best to start there and then start to explain the other stuff, but felt unsure as to how much he would tell the Clan Mother. _“And then I will tell you what we spoke of.”_

A perfect compromise and it put the Clan Mother in between a rock and a hard place. Either destroy the artifact that her ancestors protected religiously throughout time for information or potentially put her people at risk if this crystal ball was indeed dangerous and left in the dark. The Clan mother choose the former. The elderly woman took one look at the trembling form of Desmond and sighed, reaching over and gently squeezing the assassin’s shoulder in reassurance. _“I will get rid of it myself. Take the time to gather your thoughts.”_

And with that the Clan Mother left the ex-bartender to stew in what he had witnessed. Desmond ignored the pain in his back as he leaned forward and put his head in his hands, elbows digging into his knees to support properly. The assassin was quiet for a long moment and to an outsider observer it would look like he was resting, but the subtly trembling shoulders gave away his distress.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Desmond felt tears start to dribble down his cheeks. He felt a sob start to build in the back of his throat, but forced it back through sheer force of will. “Fuck Juno, fuck the sun, fuck life. Why is it always me?”


End file.
